


reflections

by neurolingual



Category: RWBY
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Well for the most part, a blake fic, a chefs kiss if u will, hahahaha jk, really tho its blake with a hint of bees, should i have posted this before this weeks episode? whos asking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 23:44:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21466501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neurolingual/pseuds/neurolingual
Summary: It’s centralized, a starting point for where everything would extend, the beginning to never change. A type of control, whether intentional or not, gifted by whoever first created it.Blake presses down, harder; yet, everything remains.
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long
Comments: 10
Kudos: 129





	reflections

**Author's Note:**

> oh short haired blake we're really in it now

It had hardly been the accommodations Weiss had been expecting, judging by the look on her face. Blake watches as she paces across the corridor; the cup of tea in her hands is cooled, and steam no longer rises from the kettle’s spout, sat atop the ottoman. There’s a quickness to Weiss’s step, an irate twitch at her brow, and Blake can hear that she’s saying something (though mostly it’s as if she’s listening through static), but none of it is coming through. She has a bruise on her hip from when her aura shattered, too close to all her other wounds, that throbs in every way she shifts her legs. Blake’s tired to the bone, and the weight that had always settled on her shoulders isheavier now than before. 

But it seems feather light under the curl of Yang’s hand.

One of Blake’s legs is propped up on the large arm of the chair Yang has since collapsed into. She mostly dangles off to the left, taking care not to pinch any more at that bruise, and it’s not the most uncomfortable way she’s  ever  had to sit. Blake had thought against her seat, at first, caught in the daze of  maybe too much, but it’s as though Yang had been waiting, shuffling far enough over to place her hand on Blake’s shoulder, a statement without fear of being heard. 

At first, Blake had been invested in Weiss’s dismay—where she had fallen in just the brief moment before, where things had been taken care of for her , only to remember this wasn’t  home anymore —empathizing with her decision to focus on something trivial rather than the inevitable. As it continued, with little interjection from either of their teammates, Blake found her attention being pulled to where her body felt the most pain; the gnawing exhaustion that ached behind her eyes was a bit more complicated to explain, so she went with the smart of her hip in case her discomfort were to be noticed. She had not sipped from her cup since her first, and everything become blurry around the ring of her vision.

Like she’s far from being at peace, and even farther from acceptance. And Blake’s dawning understanding was that she’d never truly be ready for either.

The room doesn’t grow smaller, the air doesn’t become thin; the noise remains at the same level of static and there’s no light at the end of anything. 

It’s much the opposite, really.

The room grows to twice its size, then three, and everything stagnant stretches in its growth. Weiss is pacing an oblong path through the elongated hall, and Ruby has never been sat so far away. Even the warmth of Yang’s hand feels  foreign in a place it never has. And in this lies a world that’s out of her control.

Which is why the aggressiveness in which she stands snaps everyone back into place.

“Blake-?” Ruby starts, and Yang’s fingers press to the small of her back, but Blake is already stepping from the room, down the hall to shut the bathroom door behind her as gently as she could.

She felt the need to cry but knew it wouldn’t come; a culmination of resenting the number of tears she’s shed over him already, and just not wanting to put in the emotional effort of pulling herself together again. It was over, finally—the end of a looming terror—but the thought of any lenience for victory turned her stomach and left her tasting acid.

Her hands gripped the sink, white blooming on her knuckles as she takes a breath, slow, deep, and then another. It helps, though not overwhelmingly so. She turns on the faucet and lets cold water run over her hands, patting them against her face , splashing once to break anew. She dabs her face with a towel, purple trailing on the linen, and finally takes her first look at herself, blinking into the mirror.

Her ears quirk. There’s a crack in the bottom right corner.

It doesn’t splinter far—enough so that space could break loose if handled too rough, but nothing fundamental. It could still easily hold together, despite  where it blemishes. There’s something ironic to be found here — mostly because this i s Atlas, where Blake wouldn’t be surprised if every one had pleats in their underwear. A hair out of place was a personal affront . She touches her forefinger to the center of the crack, gives it a twist. Whole but nearly broken, in a place where continuity was legislature.

The  bathroom  lights are bright enough to sterilize. Blake has to squint,  giving  pressure to the crack with each strain of her eyes.  It’s centralized, a starting point for where everything would extend, the beginning to never change. A type of control, whether intentional or not, gifted by whoever first created it.

Blake presses down, harder; yet, everything remains.

It bothers her, oddly, in such a way that any minor inconvenience would, though the annoyance seems to stick. She tries again, wondering if it would finally give. It doesn’t, to her chagrin, but she’s focused—on something, anything—and  it  keeps her  from a spiral.

The walls are calm and nothing extends; Blake puts force behind her wrist and the mirror gives way, breaks into large shards of three. The scrape of glass startles her, and she steps backs, only to take herself in by thirds.

Her stance was comedic, arms taut and neck craned away, ears high.  Each of her reflections blink back at her, scanning the other for something of recognition. It was her well enough, but not who she thought she’d be.

The gloss of her hair falling down her shoulder, barely there. Her eyes harden, each reiteration confident.

Blake leaves the door open behind her as she stomps down the hall; the click of her heels echo without heed. Their weapons are still half dumped over their duffels’, propped lazily against the grey-leather sofa. Her teammates watch as Blake takes the sheath of Gambol Shroud in her hand with intent, Yang the only one to shift as if ready to follow, to help before being called to.

Blake directs a wayward smile only to her and disappears into the bathroom once more.

There’s  a direct finality  when she lifts the hilt and  holds the broken half of her katana, steady. The mirror stares back at her in threes. The crack remains the same and Blake gathers her hair in her hand, touches her blade to the mass.

A few strands fall to the floor where the edge makes contact. Sliding the blade through her hair brings forth a catharsis, a crumbling ache gone and whisked away.

Her eyes are closed, lowering the mass of hair limp in her left hand, suddenly struck with the fact that she’s not exactly sure what to do with it, now. She does a quick scan of the room, brushing her hands off into what she hopes is the compacter, picking loose strands from the fabric of her top. There’s recognition once again when she looks into the mirror and sees all of herself staring back, both in reflection and progression.

Blake touches the ends—a little uneven to her, but hardly noticeable. She runs her fingers through the entirety of it; the way it falls against the back of her neck, unburdened by length. A flutter begins in her chest, spreads when there’s a knock at the bathroom door, flourishes with the voice that follows.

“Are you okay?” asks Yang. Blake stares at the door like she can feel her partner’s weight against it fully.  “You grabbed your sword pretty fast.”

The mirror gives her back her smile, timid and calm.

“Yeah,” says Blake, reaching for the indented handle. “Better, actually.”

The door slides open and Yang’s caught in the beginning stage of relief, cut with the widening of her eyes, darting across Blake’s face as her cheeks grow warm.

“Oh,” falls from Yang’s lips, an afterthought, unintentional. Yang regards her, follows the curve of her smile to the  chopped ends of her hair, to where Blake still tugs on a section between her fingers.

Blake feels her eyes soften, the pink in her own cheeks in bloom as she meets Yang’s now-stilled gaze. “Well?” she asks, spoken in both volume and tone as Yang’s private thought. “How do I look?”

Silence is a steady beat between them as Yang’s expression softens. She lifts her right hand, takes the cut of Blake’s jaw in her hand and brushes her thumb over Blake’s cheek. On instinct, Blake reaches up to hold her wrist, and seeing the way Yang seems to fall forward, more into them, she reaches to hold Yang’s arm in both hands, doing her best to cast her  amber  eyes molten.

It’s done with care, how Yang leans,  how she tucks Blake’s head in closer. Blake parts her lips,  her assumption of being kissed  finally  reciprocated. Her eyes flutter as Yang tilts her head  for them both and Blake’s afraid her tremble will be felt.

And  Yang presses her lips to the corner of Blake’s mouth,  and the flutter grows, becomes something more than a simple kiss, becomes more than just the two of them. Blake closes her mouth as Yang gives just a bit more, and then parts; her pulse thrums at her neck, not nearly hidden by her new scarf.

There’s a smile on Yang’s face that Blake is sure her own matches—bright, happy, something that hasn’t seen either one of them since before Beacon fell, where being carefree and young was a luxury, what they hadn’t known they would lose. A glow shines under Blake’s skin as Yang’s eyes are sharp in lilac hues, offered only to her.

“You look beautiful,” she says, unabashedly proud, and Blake could fall for her forever,  over and over and over again.

**Author's Note:**

> gimme ya thoughts !!! i can never remember how to link on this godforsaken site but im neurolingual on tumble as well!


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